Iain Pears - Stone's Fall

Strict, but in my opinion, foolish, for the refusal of Britain to allow its industry to supply both sides led to the Americans supplying themselves, and thus building up the industries which now challenge our own. A more enlightened policy would have supplied both evenhandedly, thus draining the United States of gold, and shackling their industry; with a little wisdom and ruthlessness Britain could readily have re-established its predominant interest on that continent, and been ready to congratulate whichever side emerged victorious.

But the moralists triumphed, and from that triumph will come, eventually, the eclipse of Britain's industrial might. Be that as it may, Laird's (which was in need of commissions) found a way around the problem by using some other company as a go-between. How could we prevent our client re-equipping the vessel and selling it on? they asked when the matter was raised in Parliament. We build ships, we do not oversee their use as well.

A clever move but one which the victorious Unionists would not accept; they began to pursue Britain for liability for losses caused by the ship, and only settled the matter sometime after I returned to England from Venice. The Government and the insurance companies eventually paid out some four million pounds – for by the time she was caught off France in 1864, the Alabama had sunk a fearsome amount of Unionist shipping. But in 1867 the Americans (a people prone to extravagance in both speech and action) were insisting that anything less than two thousand million pounds' compensation would be an insult to their national pride, and threatening all manner of reprisals if they didn't get it.

I was thrust into Macintyre's company once more a few days after I received this interesting sideline on his past life, when he invited me to come along for the first real test of his torpedo. I was highly honoured; no other English person was even told this great moment in his life was taking place, but I had suggested that he try it out secretly first of all, rather than with the bankers there. What if you try it and there is some small hitch? That could ruin everything, I suggested. Best to have a test run away from prying eyes. If all goes well, then you can repeat the experiment in front of the bankers. It was good advice, and he realised it. The date was set, and I was – rather shyly – invited. I was touched by the gesture.

So, one cold morning a few days later, I found myself on a wooden barge, wrapped up warmly against the mist which hung over the lagoon like a depressing shroud. We were far away from land, to the north of the city, with a couple of his workmen for company. The barge owner had been told he was not wanted, and the previous evening the torpedo had been loaded in secret onto the deck and covered with tarpaulins.

It was a sailing barge, and there was a flurry of anxiety that there wasn't going to be enough wind, but eventually, at half-past four in the morning, the bargee declared that we could go, and we set off – very slowly indeed, the boat creeping along at such a pace that an hour later we were still just off the Salute. By six we were in the dead waters north of Murano, where the lagoon was shallow and few boats, only those with the most shallow of draughts, ever ventured. It was a magical experience in a way: to sit in the prow of the vessel smoking a cigar as the sun rose, and wild ducks flew low over the marshes, seeing Torcello in the distance with its great ruined tower, and far away the occasional sail – red or yellow – of one of the sailing ships that endlessly crisscrossed the lagoon.

Macintyre was not the best company, continually fussing over his invention, unscrewing panels and peering inside with an old oil lamp held over him by Bartoli so he could see what he was doing. Adding a little oil here, tightening a bolt there, tapping an instrument and grumbling under his breath.

'Nearly ready?' I asked when I had seen enough of birds and got up to walk back to the middle of the ship.

He grunted.

'I will take that to mean "No, it needs to be stripped down and rebuilt entirely,"' I said. 'Macintyre, the damned thing is either going to work, or not. Bung it in the water and see what happens.'

Macintyre glowered at me.

'But it's true,' I protested. 'I've been watching you. You aren't doing anything important. You're not making any real changes. It's as ready as it will ever be.'

Bartoli nodded behind him, and lifted his eyes to heaven in despair. Then Macintyre sagged as he accepted that, finally, he could do no more; that it was time to risk his machine in the water. More than that: to risk his life, for everything that made him what he was he had embedded into the metalwork of his torpedo. If it failed, he failed.

'How does it move, anyway?' I asked. 'I see no funnel or anything.'

There was nothing quite like a stupid remark to rouse him. Immediately, he straightened up and stared at me with withering contempt. 'Funnel?' he snarled. 'Funnel? You think I've put a boiler and a stack of coal in it? Or maybe you think I should have put a mast and a sail on as well?'

'I was only asking,' I said. 'It has a propeller. What makes it turn?'

'Air,' he replied. 'Compressed air. There's a reservoir with air at three hundred and seventy pounds per square inch pressure. Just here.' He tapped the middle of the torpedo. 'There are two eccentric cylinders with a sliding vane to divide the volume into two parts. In this fashion the air pressure causes direct rotation of the outer cylinder; this is coupled directly to the propeller, you see. That way, it can travel underwater, and can be ready for launch at all times, at a moment's notice.'

'If it works,' I added.

'Of course it will work,' he said scornfully. 'I've had it running dozens of times in the workshop. It will work without fail.'

'So? show me,' I said. 'Chuck it over the side and show me.'

Macintyre straightened up. 'Very well. Watch this.' He summoned Bartoli and the others, and they began to put ropes round the body of the torpedo, which was then rolled carefully to the side of the boat, and lowered gently into the water. The ropes were then removed, and the torpedo floated, three-quarters submerged, occasionally bumping softly against the side of the boat. Only a single, very thin, piece of rope held it close by, attached to a small pin at the rear. That, it seemed, was the firing mechanism.

Macintyre began rubbing his chin with anxiety. 'No,' he said. 'It's not right. I think I'd better take it out and check it over again. Just to make sure . . .'

Bartoli began to shake his head in frustration. 'Signor Macintyre, there is nothing left to check. Everything is just fine.'

'No. Just to be on the safe side. It will only take an hour or . . .'

Then I decided to intervene. 'If I may be of assistance . . .' I said.

Macintyre turned to look at me. I grabbed the thin piece of rope in his hand and gave a sharp tug.

'What the hell do you think you're doing?' he screamed in shock. But it was too late. With a quiet ping, the pin popped out of the torpedo, which immediately gave off a whirring, gurgling noise as the propeller began to spin at high speed.

'Whoops,' I said. 'Sorry. Oh, look, off it goes.'

True enough. The torpedo accelerated at an impressive speed in a straight line at a slight angle to the boat.

'Damned interfering fool,' Macintyre muttered as he pulled out his watch and started staring at the torpedo as it grew smaller and smaller in the water. 'My God, it works! It really works. Look at it go!'

It was true. Macintyre told me later (he spent much of the trip home poring over a piece of paper, working out his calculations) that his torpedo accelerated to a speed of about seven knots within a minute, that it travelled with only a 5 per cent deviation from a perfectly straight line, and that it was capable of going at least fourteen hundred yards before running out of power.